


Blame the Caffeine (or lack there of)

by malchanceux



Series: Stalker!Verse [1]
Category: Burn Notice, NCIS
Genre: Humor, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael finds himself on the wrong end of an interrogation, big whoop. His biggest issue with the whole "being in custody" thing is his inability to take a nap. But what's this? Cliche ex-government spy meets NCIS operative? What ever will our poor Westen do when he finds his every waking thought filled with one Special Agent DiNozzo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment of the Stalker!Verse. For those few who have already read this, it has been read over, grimaced at, and fixed. And I use "fix" liberally. It is still to be grimaced at. Bare witness to the horrors of my freshman year writing capabilities. :'D

# Blame the Caffien (Or Lack There Of)

Alright, so admittedly things weren't going the way Michael had planned, he could see that now. It had taken several hours, getting arrested by the NCIS, and being put on the bad end of an interrogation to realize it, but hey, cut him some slack. He'd been running on nothing but cheap coffee and yogurt for the past 48 hours, tracking down and eliminating a highly trained (And apparently previously enlisted in the Army) assassin before he could kill an innocent bystander turned witness.

He thought he was doing pretty good so far.

Michael maybe even viewed the cold metal chair, harsh fluorescent light, and the young officers questioning as a short breather before he had to go back to work. His biggest stitch with the whole getting arrested thing was the fact that, well, interrigations made it pretty impossible to nap. And he could really, really go for one of those. Which is one of the reasons Michael didn't bother even trying to suppress the yawn that undoubtedly pissed off the man across from him immensely.

"I'm sorry am I boring you?" the young Agent bristled. DiNazzo, Dizenzo? Honestly, Michael hadn't been paying much attention when the kid had introduced himself, or really to anything he'd said since he walked into the room. It was a little sloppy to tune the kid out like that, yes, but again: Michael was tired and didn't plan on sticking around long enough for anything the Agent said to make a difference anyway.

"Huh? Oh no never," Michael said, feigning innocence. He might as well entertain himself while he was sitting there doing nothing. "Really, it's not your dry ranting about inconsistent evidence and half assed eye-witnesses that are putting me to sleep, truthfully it's the lack of crappy corner store coffee running through my veins. And maybe the absence of Yogurt too."

That earned him a very unamused face. Michael thought maybe the agent was being too uptight, thought the young mans unhappy expression seemed almost out of place, but again that could just be the malnourishment talking...

Suddenly the lights went out in the interrogation room. Michael took the signal for what it was, and without a second thought took action.

 

* * *

 

 Michael didn't like feeling guilty.

Usually when he felt anything even closely resembling guilt, it was after either his mom or Fiona had persisted and pestered until the emotion finally kicked his common sense and rationality to the curb and made itself at home. It was like a disease: spreading through his thoughts and killing any of his Spy training that stood in its way. The out come always seemed to be him doing something particularly stupid.

This time, however, the feelings came naturally; unexpectedly, and all on their own--no prompting from dear mommy, or weapons obsessed ex-girlfriend. So that's why Michael found himself breaking and entering into one Special Agent Anthony Dinozzo's apartment, placing a large vase of white Stargazer lilies with a curly white ribbon on a cluttered kitchen counter--along with a 'Get well soon' card.

Because he felt _guilty._

Michael sighed to himself and wondered if DiNozzo would even get the message. Would the flowers be taken as an apology, or a threat? If something like this had ever happened to himself, Michael was sure he'd spazz out and think someone was trying to kill him. But, then again, Michael was also a Black-listed Spy. Surely DiNozzo would go for 'crazed loon trying to apologize' before he attached himself to the idea of a psychopath killer.

Michael hoped so, or going through all the trouble of getting a dozen Stargazers would all be for nothing.

He snooped around in the apartment for a bit, getting to know the Agent a little more personally without actually having to meet him face to face--though oddly enough the idea didn't seem all that appalling. In fact, the more Micheal looked the more he wanted to really get to know the Special Agent. Too bad he was a fugitive. Or, well, at least to the Special Agent he was… and maybe to a few government agencies. So yeah, that may put a damper on Michael's curious wanting to get to know DiNozzo on a more personal level. Shame though, if his taste in music and movies was anything to go by (And a half a dozen other things Michael had picked up on both his past and mannerisms by poking around his apartment) DiNozzo seemed to be a pretty decent guy.

Ah crap, now Michael really felt bad for knocking the Agent unconscious and escaping from custody.

Oh well, that's what the lilies were there for.


	2. Little Game of Simon Says

Tony's head hurt. He wasn't about to reach into his desk drawer and pull out another couple of Tylenol though, not now, not when Gibbs was sitting at his desk just a few feet away. He felt pathetic and embarrassed enough as it was, he didn't need to go adding insult to injury.

Not only had Tony gotten nowhere with the interrogation of Simon Stevens, but he had been manhandled, knocked unconscious, and cuffed to the table while the perp escaped-- _plus_  there was this little thing where Stevens apparently broke into his apartment a few days after, leaving a thing of  _flowers_  and a  _Get Well_   _card_  in his kitchen.

That sick fuck had now made a very little man out of Tony, he felt like even the McGeek was looking down at him, even though he was pretty sure that wasn't true. He didn't really think McGee had it in him. But still, Tony couldn't help but feel belittled, even by his peers, and he was  _sure_  Gibbs was pissed at him.

Or at least he was pissed in general.

They'd been chasing down dead end leads practically since the power had been shut off in the building and Stevens had escaped. So far they had come up completely empty handed.

_God_  did his head hurt…

Tony had been trying his best to not think about what happened in the interrogation room--to ignore the sense of failure and weakness every time his treacherous mind threw the memory at him clear as day. He found the longer he tried to dismiss it, the more the memories tried to surface. The lights going out, the clatter of the chair hitting the ground, the firm press of Stevens' body against his back as the man's arm encircled his neck; choking off his air supply until he passed out.

The man had moved fast, too fast for an ordinary criminal in Tony's opinion, but he tried his damnedest to keep that particular thought to himself, lest he look like a kicked puppy looking for an excuse.

He let out a heavy sigh, taking one last longing look at his desk drawer before picking up his office phone, following probably yet another dead end lead. It was only half past twelve, he didn't get off until seven. Tony could already tell today was going to be a long,  _long_  day.

 

* * *

 

Tony contemplated how many times he'd need to slam his head into the hard brick wall until it killed him. Not to say that he was suicidal, well, not usually anyway. But this case had been particularly difficult, and now that they knew who the common-thief-gone-murderer was, they couldn't find him.

Gibbs was riding their asses especially hard too, and considering they still hadn't gotten anywhere with the Simon Stevens case, other than to discover that  _'Simon Stevens'_ wasn't his real name--meaning they knew absolutely  _nothing_  about the guy--Tony didn't blame him.

He was getting ready to just say  _fuck it_  and go see if Abby had anything for them  _(even though he knew she didn't)_ when his computer oh so politely informed him of a new e-mail. He opened it, curious and not recognizing who it was from:

SimonSays gmail . com

**I come bearing gifts**

_3342 Cobwell St North, second floor, room 205_

_Sincerely,_

_Simon_

For a moment Tony just sat there. 'What the Hell' didn't seem to do the moment any justice, and soon after leaping from his chair and informing Gibbs of the e-mail, he found himself crammed into the car with Ziva at the wheel.  _(God help them all.)_

The address took them to some small, shitty apartment complex, and though on the outside room 205 didn't seem all that special--its stained white door just as dirty and banged up as all the others--the unconscious and gagged man duck taped to a hard wooden chair inside the room made the trip totally worth their while.

It was one Gregory McKath, the common-thief-turned-murderer they had been hunting down for the past week. Not to say Tony wasn't happy for finding the guy, but the identity of who had bound and gagged the criminal for them was a heavy gloom over their catch.

 

* * *

 

He'd had several people ask if he knew exactly what he was doing, and for every person that asked there was the same reply:  _not really._  Michael seriously had  _no_  idea why he was helping the NCIS, he just…  _was._

Personally, he completely blamed DiNozzo. Michael wasn't stupid, he knew he had caught Gregory McKath for him, but Michael wasn't sure  _why._  He had no idea what he was thinking, or if he even was. But either way, he found himself buried in whatever new case DiNozzo and his team had been put on; looking for the killer of their newest victim: petty officer Lee Williams.

He had been stabbed repeatedly in a bar parking lot, left for dead. Lee bled out in the matter of minutes; a major artery had been ruptured. Michael was pretty sure it had been the guys best friend, Tyson Jones, because he was 85% positive Lee had slept with the guys wife.

Michael wasn't going to e-mail DiNozzo until he was sure though, it'd be kind of an asshole move to send him on a wild goose chase, and that's not the kind of impression Michael wanted to make. What kind of impression he wanted to make exactly, Michael wasn't sure, but he knew that wasn't it.

It bothered Michael that he didn't know what he wanted to  _gain_  from this mess, he almost always knew what the end game was; the goal he was striving for. So then why the  _Hell_  was he doing  _this?_

Fiona had teased several times that he was just trying to charm and buy his way into the Special Agents pants, and at the time he had sincerely scoffed at even the thought, but now… Michael wasn't so sure.

God, why were things always so  _complicated?_


End file.
